


50 Shades of Graham

by saintsavage



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Angst, BDSM, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Dark Will Graham, Dom Will Graham, Dom/sub, F/M, Hannibal Lecter is Not a Cannibal, Inspired by 50 Shades of Grey, Jealousy, Journalist Hannibal, M/M, Rough Sex, Semi-Crack, Seriously Bad BDSM, Stupid Rich Will, Sub Hannibal Lecter, Use Your Words, You Two Big Idiots, feelings are hard
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-16
Updated: 2019-01-19
Packaged: 2019-09-20 08:09:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 6,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17018958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saintsavage/pseuds/saintsavage
Summary: Utterly inspired by crisisoninfintefandoms, who was kind enough to indulge my babbling about it.Basically, the Hannibal x 50 Shades mash up that needed to exist?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS ALL VERY, VERY BAD BDSM. ALL OF IT. I HAVE WARNED YOU.
> 
> That said, I have cut out a lot of the random bullshit from the 50 Shades verse that I just. No. It's unnecessary times ten.
> 
> Also I don't know how graphic the violence will get, so it's not tagged with that warning currently. If that changes, I absolutely will warn ya'll. But shit is gonna get violent, and kinky, and nobody will use their big boy words because FEELINGS ARE HARD.
> 
> Also also, expect short chapters, to be posted according to no schedule at all because that's how I roll right now. Roughly at 10 chapters right now, but we'll see.

"He _threatened_ me! I can't believe he threatened me and I can't even _write_ about it."

This was the eighth time Freddie had said as much. She'd been complaining for hours now, much to Hannibal's displeasure. All morning she's spoken of nothing but her encounter with Will Graham, an eccentric billionaire who had the audacity to not only turn down her crude offer of intimacy, but then to get angry at her for asking some very leading questions. It was tedious.

"Are you even listening to me, Hannibal? This is... this is _illegal_! The very _essence_ of corruption. The fact that he could _say_ something like that to me without any repercussions! He's practically a sociopath. I bet he has bodies buried at that mysterious farm of his. Mark my words, that man is a psycho." _Oh Miss Lounds, you have never been able to resist sensationalizing things. A pity that your current target is richer than Croesus and can destroy your career with a word._

"Or perhaps he has no interest in tabloid journalists?" If he expected her to rise to the bait, he's disappointed. To others Freddie Lounds might rant and rave about being a serious, hard-hitting crime journalist, but she hasn't ever bothered with Hannibal. She knows a lost cause when she sees one - usually.

Instead her eyes roll melodramatically as she gestures to her body. "Please. Look at me, _everyone_ is interested." Her attention drifts back to her computer as her arms cross - there's a mutinous cast to her delicate, doll-like features now. "No, there's something _wrong_ with him. I was _terrified_ for my _life_."

"So you've said." Given that she's thoroughly ruined his morning - he's still only three paragraphs into his story on the opera's opening event - Hannibal can't help but needle the pugnacious redhead, just a little. "Perhaps if you'd been more polite and not ambushed him at his place of work, he'd have co-operated, Winifred."

Freddie wrinkles her nose. She _hates_ being called that, legal name or not, but no one can make Hannibal do anything he doesn't want to do and she knows that from experience. Better to just accept the inevitable. Hell, if she argued he might use the term _more_. In _public_. Where people _can actually hear him_. "Even _you_ couldn't get that man to be polite, Hannibal. And you're a fucking snake charmer. You got the governor to admit to paying off that underage hooker and he wasn't even mad that you wrote about it. He sent your a Christmas card from prison!" Another exasperated sigh as she kicks her shoes under her desk.

She's clearly reached the sulking portion of the day, which means Hannibal might get some peace and quiet at long last. Only now... he's been pricked by what she's said. The challenge of it. As though there was actually a task out there that he could not accomplish with ease.

Unfortunately, Freddie isn't done. " _' It isn't very smart to piss off a guy who thinks about killing people for a living.'_ Ugh. Imagine that article! The fucking ad revenue alone! It would be the story of the year. The century even!"

"It wouldn't be worth it." His mind is only half on their conversation, the rest pulling up what he recalls about the rather enigmatic Mr. Graham. Ultra-wealthy, from an oil family. Old money, though he'd only been given access to it in the last few years after the death of his father. Put himself through school and lived somewhere remote. It wasn't much, all told. He'd have to do more research, now that Freddie had unintentionally thrown down the gauntlet.

_The look on her face when I publish the article will be priceless._

"I know. I was there when he followed up with the fact that he had enough money to erase me off the fucking planet. Which is _bullshit_."

"To be fair, you _did_ accuse him of having the mindset of a serial killer." And probably much worse - she was far too rash with her words when thwarted.

One of her eyebrows raises. "You think I'm wrong?"

"I think you lack tact, Winifred."

"Whatever. I'm going to go get some coffee." Retreat was her usual tactic when there were no sympathetic souls in the office, and she snatched up her purse and shoved her shoves on without preamble or grace. "And _not_ from that ridiculous place you like, so don't even _ask_. I'm getting _Starbucks_ like a _normal human being_."

"You do that, Winifred."


	2. Chapter 2

Finding Will Graham actually proved to be somewhat difficult - more of a challenge to his investigation skills than Hannibal anticipated. In the end it had required _thoroughly_ charming the somewhat unfortunately attired woman at the front desk of Quantico and a perfectly made clafoutis, but he felt it was more than worth it to find out just where the man had hidden himself away at - because hidden himself away he _had_.  
  
Impossible to think of, that a man so wealthy, "richer than fucking god" according to nearly everyone who could be asked, could be found _here_ , surrounded by nearly 600 acres of quiet forest. Well, perhaps the privacy wasn't so surprising, but the house nestled away in the center, clapboard and simple, nothing that couldn't be managed by one man alone? It was... unexpected. Delightfully so.  
  
The property itself was owned by a shell company, which was in turn owned by another company and yet another, an elaborate cups and balls routine carefully tucked under the expansive wings of Graham Oil Inc. - a game that Hannibal could appreciate for it's intricacy and technical finagling. He had no doubts that Mr. Graham himself had devised such a scheme for his own protection, rather than to exploit current laws in order to multiply his billions.  
  
Extraordinary.  
  
Perhaps it _was_ impulsive to drive the two and a half hours to Wolf Trap, Virginia, but after everything he'd so carefully gleaned about Will Graham he could not resist the urge to corner him in his very den. The secretary had confirmed, while groaning over Hannibal's culinary prowess, that one Mr. Graham always spent Saturdays at home, phone off and mind unreachable. Knowing that he was home, burrowed away, proved to be a temptation too impossible to deny.  
  
And why should he?  
  
From all that he'd learned about Will Graham (and it was astonishingly _little_ , compared to his normal research - Will was a very careful man) he would be placed greatly off-balance by the sudden appearance of a stranger on his doorstep, more so because his home was supposed to be a secret, one dearly kept. He'd be ill at ease, and that was an edge Hannibal wanted.  
  
Furthermore, he might even need it.  
  
He felt confident that he'd secure an interview regardless, naturally, but he'd take any and all advantages - Hannibal played to win. Always.  
  
That in mind he armed himself with everything he'd need to provide a simple but nourishing meal once he'd arrived. _A pity that I can't prepare something in my home, but it wouldn't keep, properly. And I don't think he'd enjoy something extravagant - not to begin with._ Admittedly, feeding others was a ploy Hannibal often used in order to get his way. People seemed so eager to exchange their knowledge for his offerings, greedy for it. Bound by social expectations. But the few photographs he'd seen of Will Graham featured a gaunt man much in need of a good meal... and to himself, Hannibal could acknowledge there was something about that, about _providing_ , that pleased him a great deal.  
  
Which is how he found himself pulling up to Will's little farmhouse, bemused by it's quaint nature... which quickly trailed off to mild shock when the front door opened and out flooded a whole motley pack of mixed breed dogs. _His portfolio did mention something about animal rescue..._  
  
In the doorway stands a wary man, shading his eyes. The distance is too great to discern more than the tense set of his shoulders, the well-worn clothing that is deceptive in it's simple nature, and Hannibal is eager to reveal more. But of course, he doesn't express any of that.  
  
Initially he'd considered faking some kind of car trouble, but the remote nature of Will's property made such a ploy difficult. He'd have to be trespassing to even be close enough to justify the walk, and in the end it wasn't worth ruining his shoes or sacrificing the chance to feed Will something made from his own hands.  
  
Stepping out of the car, gently scratching the brindle ears of the nearest dog, Hannibal offers a tentative smile. Hesitant, unsure, shoulders curled in and head tipped downward. His body language conveys his uncertainty beautifully, he's certain. A performance without flaw. "Mr. Graham?" Even his voice his soft, lamb-like in it's very meekness.  
  
Will steps further on the porch, crossing his arms now.  
  
He isn't impressed.  
  
"This is private property."  
  
"My apologies." The smile he offers now is demure, but edged with warmth. It's the same smile he wore to convince the former governor to tell him all of his sins.  
  
Will frowns.  
  
"I am quite afraid that I am here to ambush you." One of Will's dark eyebrows raises up - sardonic. _Charming_. "But I've brought food, if that lessens the offense."  
  
He might be known for his surly nature, but Hannibal has been betting that Will Graham is, among many things, at his heart, possessing of a set of manners. Sure enough, Will sighs grumpily and shifts on the balls of his sock-clad feet. "Stop with the virginal lamb routine and I might talk to you."  
  
"Beg pardon?" It isn't often that Hannibal is caught out, but it seems Will is destined to surprise him, because he's clocked the mask Hannibal has worn in under a minute. _Impressive, for a reclusive billionaire._  
  
Deciding to drop the pretense, Hannibal bows with a flourish, causing Will to smile despite himself. "You seemed the type, if you don't mind my saying, Mr. Graham."  
  
"Well, I'm not." _That's an exceptionally annoyed tone. No matter._  
  
"I see that now." Hannibal crosses the distance between them, mindful of the dogs still milling at his feet, wagging their tails in excitement.  
  
"Name?"  
  
Holding out a hand, Hannibal can't help the flush of aesthetic pleasure he feels now that he's close enough to see him. Will is all curls and pale skin, with a taunting edge that's magnetic. _Lovely_. "Hannibal Lecter."  
  
With Will's begrudging help, Hannibal's supplies are retrieved from the car without any casualties-via-canine, and he prepares them both a simple protein scramble while Will watches him with too-keen eyes. It hasn't escaped him that Will doesn't entirely know how to deal with someone like Hannibal, a forceful presence that also manages to be passive. The push-pull of him is appealing to Will - but Hannibal isn't aware of that.  
  
Not in this moment as they talk about dogs and dominance, the killers Will chases and the politicians Hannibal destroys. They talk about Hobbs. About black marks and teacups and desire, and before long the fat swath of honey-yellow light stretching across Will's floor has begun to dim without either of them noticing the passage of time. Later he'll look back and wonder how he could have _possibly_ missed the possessive consideration in Will's eyes, the intensity of his regard.  
  
But it ends, as all things do, and Will helps Hannibal pack everything back into his car - no longer hostile, but he's closing up again. Shuttering himself. "Well, I hope it was worth it."  
  
"You sound unsure."  
  
"I don't do.. this. Interviews, even informal ones."  
  
"Heaven forbid we become friendly, Mr. Graham."  
  
Will's sharp eyes meet his own for one brief, bright moment. "I don't find you that interesting."  
  
"You will."  
  
It's a promise.


	3. Chapter 3

Unfortunately, Hannibal didn't manage to acquire Will's phone number. This left him without a way to contact him further, to possibly procure the coveted interview that would have Freddie frothing at the mouth, but he really should have known better, in retrospect.  
  
Whatever he'd said, Will _wanted_ to see him again, even if he stubbornly denied the impulse. And that meant he only had to wait until the man broke and reached out. Logically, Hannibal knew that, somewhere in the palace of his mind. Emotionally, he found himself... annoyed. To be thwarted by something so common was so... _pedestrian_. He was unaccustomed to the feeling and found it highly unpleasant. Which no doubt would have amused Mr. Graham a great deal, had he known of it.  
  
_But perhaps he did?_ He was remarkable at intuiting the reactions and feelings of others, to the point where it could almost be considered that the week and a half since their little tête-à-tête was an intentional punishment of some kind. _Perhaps he just wanted to see what would happen._  
  
Thursday morning, Hannibal was reluctantly working on a piece about the latest acquisitions of the Baltimore Museum of Art - including another beautiful painting by Matisse - when a sort of thrumming energy began to permeate the atmosphere of the office. Everyone was suddenly hushed, quiet but also tellingly _not_ quiet. A sort of fever pitch rose up, consisting of loud typing and the scratch of pens, even a few shutter clicks.  
  
Curious, Hannibal raised his head and was confronted with Will Graham at the front desk, smiling politely as he spoke to Franklyn and pointedly ignored the man's slack-jawed expression.  
  
Given the open-air layout, Hannibal was _very_ satisfied to see Freddie in the corner where they kept the coffee machines, clenching her paper cup so tightly it was threatening to overflow all over her greedy, grasping fingers. It was a perfect moment, one he took the time to suspend in amber as he watched Will approach his desk, head down and hands shoved in his pockets.  
  
Though he hid it very well, Will wasn't happy to be in this place. Yet he'd come, made a public spectacle of himself in a room full of reporters who were covertly _losing their shit_ because _that was fucking Will Graham in their office._ And he'd done it for Hannibal. That much was blatantly clear as he stopped in front of Hannibal's desk, shifting in discomfort, lips twisted into a grimace.  
  
His eyes were on the prints behind Hannibal - specifically, the Goya. Or perhaps it was Leda and her swan that brought out such distaste?  
  
"You free?"  
  
Hannibal ignored the bluntness of the statement, turning his attention back to his laptop and saving his work for later. "Hello, Mr. Graham. A pleasure to see you again." There might be an edge of something that could be called _sharpness_ buried in the bland neutrality of his voice. A carefully offered warning - one he didn't give often.  
  
Naturally Will rolled his eyes. "Hello to you too. Are you going to answer me or not?"  
  
"I'm afraid you didn't specify what I might be free for, exactly, and I cannot say without some sort of reference in terms of time. I can't promise you a year, after all."  
  
"Funny. You're funny." But Will's have gone dark, and there's a brief flash of something that might be hunger. "What about an interview? Got time in your schedule for _that_ , Mr. Lecter?"  
  
From her place in front of the microwave, Freddie has indeed squeezed her cup too hard and even now is furiously wiping coffee off her obnoxiously printed skirt, cursing under her breath.  
  
"Tomorrow I-"  
  
"I didn't ask about tomorrow. I asked about right now."  
  
"And if I say no?"  
  
"Seeing Freddie Lounds shit bricks was fun, but this is a limited time offer." His shoulders shrug dismissively, like it's of no consequence. But the air around them feels heavy. Hannibal doesn't know why, but this perfect moment has somehow turned into something very important. He just doesn't know _why_ , only that it feels imperative that he choose correctly. "Take me home and feed me, Hannibal."  
  
\---  
  
Hannibal's home isn't the lavish affair that he'd prefer, but it isn't anything typical either. A loft downtown, a respectable mid-level that allows for the views without the ostentation of the penthouse. He can be circumspect, when he decides to be.  
  
"Is that an actual suit of armor, Hannibal?" Will's laugh is a staccato burst of amusement.  
  
Maybe not _that_ circumspect.  
  
"It is a family heirloom."  
  
And so it goes, bantering back and forth as Hannibal prepares another simplified offering - and a devilish glint in Will's eyes tells him that he's aware of it. Keenly. But it goes unsaid, for now, and they eat in the dining room, dancing around the supposed interview with great skill. Two master players of the game, feeling one another out. Testing boundaries.  
  
Or in Will's case, bulldozing over them completely, as he seems to have no concept of the idea. "You loved whoever gave you that." His fork gestures back to the armor, lazy and indolent. They're on the dessert course now, hunger sated by a blackberry cobbler and homemade vanilla ice cream, wholesome and pure in a way his more... complicated offerings cannot be.  
  
"I did."  
  
"Come on now, you want to ask me all the juicy shit, you gotta play too." He's grinning now, cheeky and irreverent.  
  
"Quid pro quo?"  
  
"Exactly. So spill. Who's wife was it?"  
  
That is surprising, enough that Hannibal almost drops his utensils. "My uncle's." A pause, clearly Will hadn't been expected that answer. "How do you know it was a woman?"  
  
"The way you said it." He offers nothing else, studying Hannibal with an intensity that might have been overwhelming, if not for the warmth pooling in Hannibals' belly at the idea that he'd elicited such interest from a man who clearly didn't express it often. "She didn't see you, did she."  
  
"She tried. But she understood I was young and infatuated with the idea of her, rather than the reality."  
  
Even with Will needling him, they get along rather well. He'd almost dare to think he _liked_ being prodded by this unconventional man, but yet again their time ends, this time when Will's phone begins to ring. Some godawful melody that Hannibal (to his great dismay) recognizes as the Cops soundtrack.  
  
"Well, hell. That's Jack." Disgruntled he silences the ringer, but the moment is broken. "I have to call him back." Will seems almost apologetic, even though the sun is close to setting and they've been together for hours now. Yet it feels like a bare handful of minutes at most.  
  
"Of course, I've kept you too long already, Mr. Graham."  
  
" _Will_. You call me Will or you don't call me anything."  
  
"Will, then." Hannibal is smiling now, a minute thing, but Will sees it anyway. "Please, make your call, I'll just clean up here."  
  
He does. By the time Will enters the kitchen he's all bristling agitation and anger. It's a good look on him. Just a bit feral. Hannibal likes it. "The world is calling you away, I take it?"  
  
"A fucking body turned up in Portland turned into a mermaid and apparently I just _have_ to be there. That's off the record, by the way."  
  
"Of course, Will. While you're gone might I arrange a photoshoot with a friend of mine, for the article? She's very flexible in terms of hours."  
  
"Yeah, that's fine. I'll see you around, Hannibal." Will has withdrawn from him again, back to the aloof stranger he'd first met on the porch. Cold and just a little bit mean, and it makes Hannibal feel off-kilter, as though they'd been dancing in perfect harmony and someone had suddenly changed the tune entirely.  
  
"Wait, Will-" He resists the urge to ask him to stay. He doesn't even know where it comes from, only that the impulse is strong. "Might I have your number, so I can contact you?"  
  
"Just call the company. They'll let me know."  
  
He shrugs into his jacket and leaves then, and just like that the apartment is too empty without him.


	4. Chapter 4

Dutifully, Hannibal calls the number to the Baltimore office of Graham Oil Inc. once he's secured the details of the photoshoot. So far Freddie has been avoiding him like the plague, furious but also _very_ unwilling to hear about his stunning coup. He can only imagine how many times she's attempted to hack into his files since Will made his appearance. _At least a half dozen, and some while sloppily drunk no doubt._  
  
"Graham Oil Inc., Baltimore Division. This is Abigail how can I direct your call?" A generic voice, like something out of a can. _How very Mall of America._  
  
"Hello Abigail. My name is Hannibal Lecter, I'm calling-" If he feels a flare of resentment over the fact that he was forced to go through one of Will's minions rather than being given direct access, it is entirely mollified when the secretary immediately recognizes his name. And what a reaction _that_ is.  
  
"Oh! _Oh_! I'll transfer for you right away, just one moment sir. I'm sorry I've never- just, just one second." She sounds very young, and nervous, almost as though she'd been given very explicit instructions about this particular phone call and doesn't wish to disappoint, but Hannibal isn't able to speak to her further as the line goes silent, without even the customary 'hold music' to entertain him - though it doesn't last long.  
  
Within a handful of seconds, a voice answers, somewhat grouchier than he's heard in previous encounters. "You certainly work fast."  
  
"I aim to please, Will."  
  
"Well?"  
  
"We're in luck. Bedelia cleared her availability for us, which means we are both at your disposal. When would be most convenient for you?"  
  
"Aren't you supposed to just give me a time and place and tell me to show up?"  
  
"I would never presume Will." _Not with you._  
  
"Tomorrow then. Say, noon?" His tone changes, grows warmer and a touch playful. "Gonna make me pick the location too?"  
  
"No, I've already got a location secured."  
  
"It's stupid fancy, isn't it." Though he cannot see him, Hannibal knows in this moment that Will Graham has just rolled his eyes and is likely smiling.  
  
"I'm afraid you'll have to wait and see. I'll send a car to your office?"  
  
"Secret huh? My favorite."  
  
"It's one you'll enjoy, Will. I promise."  
  
\---------------  
  
Contrary to whatever Will had been expecting, Hannibal has chosen a rather scenic park as their backdrop. He also conspired with the secretary - who is woefully impressionable, very young, and dealing with a severe case of hero worship when it comes to one Will Graham - to have some very _special_ guest stars on this shoot.  
  
Said stars have spent the past hour terrorizing Bedelia, barking and making a nuisance of themselves, which honestly has only improved Hannibal's opinion of them.  
  
"Honestly Hannibal, dogs?" She sounds appalled.  
  
"They're very lively, and will help present a more humanized aspect to the piece."  
  
"Yes. Nothing says perfectly stable and in no way murderously inclined than a pack of wild animals."  
  
Helping them in their efforts to keep the dogs (mostly) contained is Abigail herself, along with two other individuals from the company that have presumably worked with the dogs before: Georgia and Peter. Neither has been very forthcoming when it comes to the subject of Will Graham, but that's to be expected of employees who are no doubt paid very well for their services.  
  
When Will arrives, there's a flash of teeth - surprise, and a little bit of uncertainty. He clearly has not factored in just how winning Hannibal can be, and seems to be looking over his appropriated staff and dogs like he doesn't quite know how he ended up in this position. Abigail immediately rushes over, unsure of her own actions now that her boss is actually there in the flesh and practically wringing her hands. "Mr. Graham! I hope, I hope this is okay. You said you cleared everything with Mr. Lecter, so I helped him like you said. But... but if that was wrong-"  
  
"It's fine, Abigail. I sort of gave Hannibal creative control of this and didn't realize that meant. Well." _That the invasive bastard would take full advantage of the fact._ He doesn't say that, of course, but Hannibal can see the words just there on the edge of his pouting mouth. _Excellent_. "A literal dog and pony show."  
  
"Oh there aren't any horses Mr. Graham! Were we... should we have brought them? I don't know if Mr. Lecter knows about the stables. But we could call-" So willing to please, to win approval. It's strange but Abigail Hobbs behaved _exactly_ like Hannibal had when he'd first approached Will, playing at being the lamb. It's jarring to see - but also soothing, because Will's behavior towards her is paternal, if anything. Perhaps a sign that he was being honest that his interest lay elsewhere. _But where, exactly?_ Hannibal finds he'd _love_ to know the answer to that, but he isn't foolish enough to even begin trying to unravel that mystery today. Not when Bedelia is crossing her arms in that testy way of hers, about to go into full Artistic Huff Mode.  
  
Time to get things underway.  
  
\---------------  
  
Mercifully, the shoot is brief. For one of Bedelia's, at any rate. Hannibal knows from personal experience that she can drag things out for hours, even days, in order to get everything perfect. But today she's been kind to them after only three hours, and he knows that's because she's absolutely at the end of her tether when it comes to the squirming dogs zipping around in every single frame. Apparently her limits are "dogs" and "surly rich men" and Hannibal makes note of that to possibly exploit the next time he has to charm her into a favor like this one. (Also, she had a sneezing fit at one point and admitted to being allergic to the dogs, and wasn't _that_ something?)  
  
As everyone is packing up - Bedelia's people picking up her equipment while Will's wrangle the dogs into a specially built van - Will approaches him. They haven't spoken much, both seeming to silently agree that their conversations should not have an audience, but now that everyone else is preoccupied they're both at loose ends and have a moment alone, tucked practically in the center of the chaos. "I can't believe you bullied them into bringing the dogs."  
  
"I did no such thing. They were very eager to assist. Besides, I knew you would appreciate the gesture. Perhaps even smile, and I was correct."  
  
"Smug bastard, aren't you."  
  
"According to Bedelia, I've been smug since birth."  
  
The smile Will had been toying with dims, tilts entirely until it's become a frown instead. "We're going to get coffee. Now."  
  
The abrupt change should be concerning, but all Hannibal can feel is a slight thrill at the rough cadence to Will's voice, the firm way he physically turns Hannibal by the shoulders and steers them towards an old pick-up truck that Hannibal hadn't noticed before but likely was brought by one of Will's staff members for this reason.  
  
It should be unsettling. _Should_ be. But it isn't.  
  
\---------------  
  
"Is she your partner?"  
  
"Beg pardon?"  
  
" _Bedelia_." Will says the name like it's something diseased.  
  
"Bedelia? No, she's not, just a friend. I've known her since we were very young, but we've never been more than... I suppose reluctant companions." Hannibal can't help tilting his head, curious about this line of questioning but not daring to hope it's anything more than Will's usual brand of bluntness. "What about you, Will? If you don't mind my asking. Off the record, of course."  
  
"I'm not the romantic type." Disappointment wells in Hannibal's gut, but he staunches it firmly, refusing to give any sort of tell to the all-too-observant man sitting across from him. He can't deny that he's interested in Will, and for more than just thumbing his nose at Freddie Lounds. The way he seems to see everything so clearly is rather magnificent, and when he isn't guarding himself he expresses so _much_. A thousand different emotions all at once, all there for Hannibal to gorge himself upon as he pleases, but at the same time he might as well show nothing at all because Hannibal cannot catch those little nuances _quickly_ enough to decipher them.  
  
There's just so much potential there, right under the surface. Hannibal wants to know what makes a man like Will Graham tick.  
  
_A shame he's straight._  
  
"Few men are, it seems. A fear of emotion, perhaps. We're raised to repress ourselves, to show only strength and courage. To take what we want, when, with vicious intensity, yet a the same time having softer feelings that are no less passionate in their intensity is seen as almost a weakness. It's a pity." They talk more, about art, mythology. Plunging into the inferno with eyes wide open. Hannibal can't help referencing Dante, midway through his dark wood. Will's grown more intense the longer they've spoken, his eyes dark and hungry in a way Hannibal hesitates to name.  
  
He rather shamelessly throws out a line about Achilles and Patroclus, which Will stonewalls, and their... _meeting_ , draws to a close.  
  
More disappointment, which only grows as Hannibal returns to his apartment alone, only to discovery a plain brown box on his kitchen counter. A box that wasn't there before and somehow has managed to get inside his home without the alarm being tripped.  
  
Carefully, Hannibal opens the package, peels away the delicate black tissue paper to reveal a book nestled within, the beautifully illustrated red cover one Hannibal recognizes immediately as a first edition copy of Dante's Inferno that he'd eyed several times this year but lamented as too far out of his price range. _Mine, but not his._  
  
_Perhaps he's interested after all, despite himself._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE GETTING TO THE SMUTTY BITS EVENTUALLY.
> 
> We're just dealing with the "super inappropriate and random possessiveness and lavish gifts" portion of the 50 shades verse.
> 
> Also look, cameos because I CAN.


	5. Chapter 5

Hannibal has elected to go on a date with Frederick Chilton. The man is boring, and handsy, but Will has burned a hole in his very _mind_. He can't focus and it's appalling just how much time is devoted to daydreaming about curls and sharp eyes. And so he agrees to the date, and finds himself in a rather exclusive restaurant, being treating to the Frederick Chilton Experience. That is to say he's practically asleep from boredom.  
  
Frederick had managed to secure tickets to a private gala (by some form of bribery or witchcraft that Hannibal didn't care to speculate about) that Hannibal had already wanted to attend, and it seemed like just the thing to shake Will Graham from his thoughts, even if he had no real desire to see or be seen with the doctor in question. It wasn't fair, how easily Will had infiltrated his thoughts, erasing everything but his reluctant smile from immediate memory, and it was vexing to feel him there, burrowed under the skin.  
  
Stupidly, Hannibal had thought an evening out might better help him to re-center himself, even if it involved someone like the unexceptional Frederick Chilton.  
  
He regretted that decision _considerably_ now as Frederick droned on and on (and on, and _on_ ) about his new position at a mental hospital. Because naturally that's how the man phrased it. _A mental hospital, filled with loonies. We even have Abel Gideon you know._ Just dreadful, and probably teetering towards a HIPPA violation with how much information he felt the need to divulge about said patients.  
  
"And so I said, I said, 'Mr. Brown we do _not_ consort with _animals_.' and made him clean up the shit over in the ward where we keep all the ones that are basically braindead. You should have seen his face! But he did it, of course, because I'm his _superior_. And really, he should know better. He's just a nurse, what can he possibly know about men like Gideon? Or Miggs? He'll be _thanking_ me that he gets to keep his pretty face intact."  
  
Perhaps it's another ill-advised choice, but Hannibal at some point decided to try and drink until Frederick was interesting. That was four glasses ago. Frederick remained painfully annoying. And not even in an amusing way! He was just... dull, and noisy. Like a cricket, chirping under the fridge.  
  
It's been two hours by the time Hannibal has accepted that there is no amount of merlot that will make Frederick appeal to him, on any level.  
  
On the bright side, he hasn't been able to think about Will at all due to the man's incessant droning about himself. But that changes when his phone buzzes in his pocket.  
  
Ordinarily Hannibal would politely ignore it until later, or excuse himself to the bathroom to discretely check if it's a possible source or a lead on a story. But Frederick warrants no such niceties and Hannibal is fully prepared to make a broadway production out of this particular phone call - even if it turns out to be a wrong number. Somewhere in the world, his dead grandmother is about to die again.  
  
But the call is _not_ a salesperson, not one of his many informants. Oh no, it's much, much better: it's Will Graham.  
  
Hannibal doesn't even bother to say 'excuse me' to Frederick before he stands and walks away from the table... and if he isn't walking in a particularly straight line, that's no one else's business but his own.  
  
"Will?"  
  
"What is with y'r cheekbones, anyway? Who looks like that?" Judging from his tone of voice, and the slurring, Hannibal corrected surmises that Will is - as the kids say - absolutely _hammered_. Which is an appealing prospect, he can admit. No doubt a drunk Will Graham was much softer, more approachable. Probably prone to slipping into a lazy Louisiana drawl. Hannibal can almost imagine him in front of his fireplace, sprawled out among his dogs, lazy and content. _And in this state, he chose to call me._  
  
It's thrilling, so much so that he might unintentionally let slip where he currently is. "Apologies Will, let me make excuses to my date, I'll only be a moment."  
  
"Date." Will's voice is flat, leaden with disapproval.  
  
...admittedly, Hannibal didn't slip on accident. But he isn't sorry, not even a tiny bit.  
  
However Frederick seems to think now is the _perfect_ moment to sidle up alongside Hannibal, now that they're standing near the exit. "Honey I paid the bill, why don't I take you home? You've been driving me crazy all night. Can't wait to make you scream."  
  
Will overhears. He can't _help_ but hear it, with how close Frederick is. "Stay where you are, Hannibal. I fucking mean it."  
  
There's no time to respond: the line is dead, but Hannibal isn't upset: he's delighted. Will was coming to get him, to hopefully save him from Frederick's slimy behavior and maybe even put the other man in his place. That could only mean that Will wanted him, surely? That his interest was returned in full measure?  
  
With his usual care and charm it isn't hard to convince Frederick to go over to the bar - a large, expansive thing facing several large glass windows with an excellent view of the street. He's not too inebriated to really consider that he never gave Will his location. That Will being able to find him all might border on something uncomfortable, but like most things Hannibal doesn't consider it to be necessarily a negative. Instead he floats on the warm feeling of being cared for, of someone bulldozing the lines so unapologetically, all for Hannibal.  
  
Will is there in less than an hour. At that point, several interesting developments have occurred.

Hannibal is decidedly drunker, simply from having to endure more of Frederick's obnoxious presence, and Frederick is also far more intoxicated after Hannibal hinted that he appreciated a man who could hold his whiskey. It's made the other man _very_ vocal about his intentions, which is perfect, because Will has practically stumbled into the entrance just as Frederick says something lewd at high-volume.  
  
_Rage_. That's rage, spreading along Will's delicate features, blossoming with a ferocity that is captivating to witness. _He's beautiful._ Even as he stomps over to the pair, fists clenched at his sides, Hannibal is more enraptured than afraid. Mostly because his mind knows, somehow, that Will isn't going to damage him. That his rage is _for_ Hannibal, not _at_ him.  
  
So when he grabs Hannibal's sleeve and yanks him off the barstool, Hannibal goes willingly. Happily.  
  
Right up until Frederick grabs his other sleeve, face purple with outrage. "Hey! Hey you can't just grab him! This is an upscale establishment! You don't belong here!"  
  
Will's response is much more elegant than Frederick's pathetic sneer and stumbling attempts at standing tall. In two steps he's released Hannibal and smashed Frederick's head against the polished wood of the bar itself, growling something menacing into his ear that Hannibal doesn't catch. He's too busy trying to sooth the frightened patrons scurrying around them, holding back a large man who looks like he might interfere with Will's display of wrath. "Please, he's just upset. I'll take him home."  
  
"Sir, we have to call-"  
  
"That's _Will Graham_ , do you think it wise to call the police?"  
  
The other man - who Hannibal is beginning to realize might be security and not simply another customer - pales briefly. "Of course. But he can't- I mean- you're both leaving, right?"  
  
"Yes. We are. Right away." Distracted by his conversation, Hannibal missed whatever Will had done in that pocket of time, but it must have involved his fist because Frederick's face is decidedly more bloody than when he'd last seen it, and Will's knuckles look swollen and red. "Will? Will we need to leave. Please."  
  
Despite how furious he clearly still is, Will goes when Hannibal gently pulls him away, leaving Frederick slumped against the bar, quaking and absolutely _terrified_. He goes passively until they reach the door, and at that point he grabs at Hannibal's jacket again, this time by the lapel, and drags Hannibal into the closest alley like some sort of caveman.  
  
Hannibal can admit to himself that he finds the show of possessiveness to be... _something_. A _good_ something, warm and rich, wrapping around him like fur. Like silk and hope and feral _joy_. The feeling only grows when Will hauls him against the wall and kisses the living daylights out of him. Like he'd _die_ if he didn't. He's talking too, sweet words laced with barbed wire, but Hannibal can't catch them. He's too hungry for more of Will's hands, his mouth against his own, biting down his neck. He wants more. Needs it.  
  
"I'm going to tear you apart. I can't- _fuck_ , Hannibal. I can't _think_. I want you in _pieces_." His lush mouth is biting at the exposed skin just above Hannibal's collar, and it's exquisite. "You're coming home with me." Those words are all but growled as Will presses in closer, grinds against Hannibal's hip. Needy and trembling, but for very fierce in that need. Demanding relief like a conquering lord.  
  
It takes a minute, but Will manages to move away - holding Hannibal firmly against the wall when he tries to follow - long enough to pull out his phone. When he opens a familiar looking app, Hannibal can't help but laugh, because it's so unexpected, but so terribly _Will_.  
  
"Uber, Will?"  
  
He raises one eyebrow mischievously. "It's economical."


End file.
